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It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’. How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love. He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him. Some call it praying. But it was more than that to me. It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun. We were close back then. It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now. I’d talk about everything. Then listen. Oh yes, He would answer. He spoke through my intuition, I believe. Sometimes I would ask for a sign. Sometimes He would give me one: a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church. No one particular reason really and not in anger either. Then a few years later I had stopped praying. Other things had seemed to take precedence. It was like one day He was just gone. You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again? it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations. Something was severed. And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him. That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable. The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more. It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him. I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip. I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me. Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home. Hope that lost Faith will be found.

Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston.

So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”

I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.”

He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”

So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?“

Nothing

“Did you have anything to do with these?”

Silence

Then…..quiet laughter.

Then, “goodnight Lexi.”

Then the phone hung up.

The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective. I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.

Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot. He told me he would “ keep a report on file.” This I knew to be a lie. I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law. I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.

I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’. How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love. He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him. Some call it praying. But it was more than that to me. It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun. We were close back then. It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now. I’d talk about everything. Then listen. Oh yes, He would answer. He spoke through my intuition, I believe. Sometimes I would ask for a sign. Sometimes He would give me one: a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church. No one particular reason really and not in anger either. Then a few years later I had stopped praying. Other things had seemed to take precedence. It was like one day He was just gone. You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again? it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations. Something was severed. And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him. That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable. The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more. It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him. I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip. I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me. Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home. Hope that lost Faith will be found.

Going to my elementary school, there were about thirty kids in my class. Hell, my graduating high school class there were 562 of us. Recess was always fun. Our playground was pretty nice because I lived in an affluent suburb. It had what most nice school playgrounds in suburbia do. Plenty of swing sets, slides, see-saws. Box-ball and hop-scotch were even painted right on the hot top itself.

*
I became friends with Jimmy in second grade. We were in Mrs. Drapeau’s class. There was a few unforgettable things that happened that year. Like the time that Henry Altenwen puked and peed his pants at the same time in the front of the class. The time that Eric Frobert puked all over his reading book. And the time that Mrs. Drapeau yelled at me in front of everyone for helping a classmate pronounce a word when they were struggling, during oral reading. Asked me if I thought I should teach the class. I remember feeling my face felt hot and I felt ashamed. I was only trying to help him, my heart was kind. It’s amazing the influence that teachers can have in shaping children.

*
Jimmy and I stood next to the teacher aid at recess you see. I didn’t get much attention at home, my life there was a living hell that no one would ever find out about. Jimmy? well he was physically sick. I didn’t really know with what. His shoulders were always raised up by his chin because he struggled to breathe. So we both had different reasons for hanging out with the teacher aid at recess while all the other kids frolicked about on a beautiful sunny day.

*
Me being the little chatter box, and not really grasping at age 7 that Jimmy was so sick I treated him like anyone else. I asked him all sorts of questions since he could not run or walk around much. Why this, why that. He laughed at my questions. I told a lot of stories and a lot of jokes. I asked if he was ever going to get braces. I asked him all kinds of crazy shit. (I used to ask my Catholic grandmother if I was reincarnated and maybe I were a rock in another life)

*
Jimmy and I went to St. Mary’s Church together as well. So I am sure that I yapped about CCD too. I liked our time together. Me, Jimmy, and the teacher aide.

*
Jimmy had been out from school for a few weeks and one morning I came into school and the Mrs. Drapeau said that Jimmy wouldn’t be coming back. That he was in heaven.

*
Her words hung in the air like a garrote, choking the love in my little heart.
*****
Jimmy as I would later learn had Cystic Fibrosis. I spent a good deal of time in my teens doing the Stair Climb, an annual event during the early 1990’s at the Prudential Center in Boston to raise money for my favorite childhood friend that I lost to death.

*
Every year my dad would drive me to Boston and I would get people to sponsor me for each floor that I could walk up. I always made it to the top of it’s 52 floors. Course my legs felt like rubber when I got done. I have asthma, and sometimes it was a struggle and I would get winded. It would occur to me as I walked, how Jimmy struggled day after day. How winded he must have been. That I get relief with an inhaler…. that he suffocated. I cried as I climbed.

*
Since 1965, the term “65 Roses” has been used by children of all ages to describe their disease because it’s easier to pronounce.

*
*****
After Jimmy’s funeral, his mother sent me a card. It read, “Thank you Lexi for being there for my son. You were his only friend.” Her words gripped me and I will never forget them. To this day I never realized that all the other kids, were frolicking around, never talked to him, never stopped to get to know him. Strange, how because of the hell I lived and the horror of what happened in my house, God brought Jimmy and I together.
*****
2 weeks ago, I received a text from my mom which made me ecstatic! It read, “there is a new treatment for Cystic Fibrosis!” So I ran over and googled it. Sure enough, there is. It is a brand new FDA approved drug called “Kalydeco.”

*
It reminded me of Jimmy and I smiled, then cried. Some 35 years later, the love for my friend still lives in my heart.

I’ve said this for the last 30 years. So long now I can say this in my sleep. Next week the Church is going to fuck with this prayer and change the words to make it “new” version of the Roman Missal. Where was the voting process? Pfffft. Yeah right. There wasn’t one. I think this is bullshit. I’m not sure what I”m going to do. I think I’m going to still utter the old prayers and responses while everyone else babbles on with the other shit.

This particular prayer has special meaning for me right now.

I am feeling particularly large amounts of shame and failure in my life.

So this prayer just can’t be fucked with. It needs to remain intact.

I’ve been sleeping with my Rosary Beads at night. They were my grandmother’s. She prayed on them every morning. They are almost 80 years old. She even has a relic on there of Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina . He is a canonized Saint who had suffered stigmata. They bring me comfort. Knowing that her hands touched them, she was the most holy person I ever knew. Never said a swear her whole life. Went to Mass every day. She was a good, good person. Always had a smile for everyone.

My soul is in great turmoil.

At a friend’s suggestion, I am going to try take a trip for a 90 days. I need a hiatus. A sabbatical.

I’m nervous about this trip. I’m going to travel light. I will bring my Bible, I need to start reading that again. It has been years since I have read it. My heart has become hardened. Stubbornly refusing to go God’s way and instead going my own willful way. Repentance is on the forefront of my mind. To turn away from sin, change my mind, change my direction, turn towards God…..